whispers.
*
Lena
Lena negotiates the icy road while she fiddles with the stereo to silence a current affairs debate. In the bad reception, the frenzied voices sound like mad wasps trapped in a can.
She turns the radio off, waits a few seconds, turns it on again, and stabs at a button in search of a decent channel. After several tries, a slow growling beat fills the car. A woman’s whisper emerges over the deep bass tones. A Friday night dance mix, blissfully free from talking.
She sits back and puts both hands on the steering wheel. Agnes’s car is just ahead. Passing through the web of smaller streets alongside the main road is hazardous; many of them are not ploughed. Getting stuck is easy, but in difference to the thousands of cars queuing on the bigger roads, she is still moving. It is a good time to summarize certainties, guesses, and loose ends.
A woman is dead. There are no immediate witnesses of her death. Her boyfriend, killer or not, is on the run and has bought footage of another man. Someone present at the scene and who disappeared. One body, two missing suspects, and no weapon.
The idea that John is not the offender feels more and more likely, but it is crucial to keep her mind open to new evidence and sudden leads. Latching on to one particular theory too early is risky. It is one of the many reasons why the murder of Sweden’s prime minister twenty years earlier never had been solved, or so many claimed.
But she needs to know what is on that film.
Her phone buzzes as she clears a small roundabout. She turns down the music and looks at the screen. It is the prosecutor.
“Lena Franke here.”
“This is Lars Rosenberg,” the prosecutor says. “You have requested a search warrant?”
Lena goes over the details for the warrant while she watches the tail lights of Agnes’s car. After a few minutes, they pass under a viaduct where the underground train crosses the road and starts its climb up to Vällingby . Far away are two hulking office buildings, almost all windows dark. Across the road is a small lake surrounded by thin copses of trees.
She had been here many years ago, at a competition on a shooting range beyond the lake, tucked away behind the sprawling yard of a marina. It had gone well; lack of concentration and technique had been offset by her good eyesight and some luck.
That day had been full of small rushes: the smell of hot cartridges, the gun slamming in her hands, the tight cluster of holes in the paper targets. Press the trigger, open a hole, claim the prize and walk away. Organized and focussed. At a firing range, every shot is neat and clean, small loud textbook procedures.
The real world, she had found later, is anything but tidy.
She runs a hand over her eyes and forces her attention back to her conversation with the prosecutor. “I think that’s it,” she says.
“Anything else?” Lars asks.
“Not for the moment. I’m – I have to hang up.”
Lena ends the call, flings the phone in the passenger seat, and breathes out. The firing range is not close, but she imagines its smells reaching her: oil, fire, friction and attention. Unmoving targets, fluttering and shuddering.
She blinks slowly and stares at the lights ahead. Eyes on the road. Keep driving, think of John and Molly.
Fucking focus.
Farther up the road, Agnes stops at a red light at a new roundabout. On Lena’s left are lines of low flats, most windows lit by kitchens lamps, TVs or the azure glow of computer screens. Neon signs point to pizzerias, barbers and flower shops. At the top is the bright red logotype of a local pub. John’s home is a few corners away.
Lena and Agnes drive onto a parking lot framed by three interconnected buildings. Four other cars are parked nearby, all of them covered in snow. No sign of recent arrivals.
Lena checks the address she has scribbled down on a note. “Number nine,” she says to herself and looks up. “First floor.”
She spots the entrance in the corner.
*
Lena
Lena negotiates the icy road while she fiddles with the stereo to silence a current affairs debate. In the bad reception, the frenzied voices sound like mad wasps trapped in a can.
She turns the radio off, waits a few seconds, turns it on again, and stabs at a button in search of a decent channel. After several tries, a slow growling beat fills the car. A woman’s whisper emerges over the deep bass tones. A Friday night dance mix, blissfully free from talking.
She sits back and puts both hands on the steering wheel. Agnes’s car is just ahead. Passing through the web of smaller streets alongside the main road is hazardous; many of them are not ploughed. Getting stuck is easy, but in difference to the thousands of cars queuing on the bigger roads, she is still moving. It is a good time to summarize certainties, guesses, and loose ends.
A woman is dead. There are no immediate witnesses of her death. Her boyfriend, killer or not, is on the run and has bought footage of another man. Someone present at the scene and who disappeared. One body, two missing suspects, and no weapon.
The idea that John is not the offender feels more and more likely, but it is crucial to keep her mind open to new evidence and sudden leads. Latching on to one particular theory too early is risky. It is one of the many reasons why the murder of Sweden’s prime minister twenty years earlier never had been solved, or so many claimed.
But she needs to know what is on that film.
Her phone buzzes as she clears a small roundabout. She turns down the music and looks at the screen. It is the prosecutor.
“Lena Franke here.”
“This is Lars Rosenberg,” the prosecutor says. “You have requested a search warrant?”
Lena goes over the details for the warrant while she watches the tail lights of Agnes’s car. After a few minutes, they pass under a viaduct where the underground train crosses the road and starts its climb up to Vällingby . Far away are two hulking office buildings, almost all windows dark. Across the road is a small lake surrounded by thin copses of trees.
She had been here many years ago, at a competition on a shooting range beyond the lake, tucked away behind the sprawling yard of a marina. It had gone well; lack of concentration and technique had been offset by her good eyesight and some luck.
That day had been full of small rushes: the smell of hot cartridges, the gun slamming in her hands, the tight cluster of holes in the paper targets. Press the trigger, open a hole, claim the prize and walk away. Organized and focussed. At a firing range, every shot is neat and clean, small loud textbook procedures.
The real world, she had found later, is anything but tidy.
She runs a hand over her eyes and forces her attention back to her conversation with the prosecutor. “I think that’s it,” she says.
“Anything else?” Lars asks.
“Not for the moment. I’m – I have to hang up.”
Lena ends the call, flings the phone in the passenger seat, and breathes out. The firing range is not close, but she imagines its smells reaching her: oil, fire, friction and attention. Unmoving targets, fluttering and shuddering.
She blinks slowly and stares at the lights ahead. Eyes on the road. Keep driving, think of John and Molly.
Fucking focus.
Farther up the road, Agnes stops at a red light at a new roundabout. On Lena’s left are lines of low flats, most windows lit by kitchens lamps, TVs or the azure glow of computer screens. Neon signs point to pizzerias, barbers and flower shops. At the top is the bright red logotype of a local pub. John’s home is a few corners away.
Lena and Agnes drive onto a parking lot framed by three interconnected buildings. Four other cars are parked nearby, all of them covered in snow. No sign of recent arrivals.
Lena checks the address she has scribbled down on a note. “Number nine,” she says to herself and looks up. “First floor.”
She spots the entrance in the corner.
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